


Rum & Raisin

by Fomalhaut16



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Humor, FrUK, Hilarity, M/M, Magic Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fomalhaut16/pseuds/Fomalhaut16
Summary: A night of passion with France, an ephemeral discussion and an unexpected visitor. Anyway, a normal evening at England's house.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Rum & Raisin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Neither Hetalia nor its characters belong to me.
> 
> Disclaimer 2: This story doesn't belong to me, it belongs to Gwen-Van-Well (from Fanfiction), I just translated it into English from Spanish.
> 
> Enjoy it!

At first, he had just stayed there, still. Not that it didn't bother him, but it didn't bother him enough to move and get him off of him. And, no, the words would not work, he would not go to waste breath! Nor was it as if his mind was in the best condition to function, not under those circumstances. However, when he felt a cold hand caress his chest as that one's beard toyed on the opposite side, he knew he had had enough. France knew very well that the hugs and affection after activities of this nature were not to his liking. Abruptly — because he wanted him to notice his annoyance — he removed his own arm, which was wrapped around the French shoulders. Anyway, he hadn't wanted to put it there at first, of course not.

—It's a double bed, try to stay on your side," — England snapped, trying to sound cold.

—"You weren't complaining a few moments ago— the other replied as he snuggled closer against his partner's body.

—"That's because you weren't acting so...Frenchified before."— He uttered this last word, wrinkling his nose.

—A few moments ago, I just hugged you, now I hug you and pamper you. The difference is not much, before I acted as Frenchified as now ... I think you're starting to get used to me.

—Enough!

England had not fully revolted to turn him away from him when France backed down.

"Okay, okay!" I stay still and keep my hand"—he said. Then he lowered his hand to hide it under the covers, just above the other's crotch.

"Don't keep it there!"

After a laugh, the Frenchman obeyed and put his arm to his side. Indeed, it was a double bed, a large cushioned mattress on which England spent his nights. Thick blankets and silky sheets covered them both, the yellow and beige of the fabric patterns giving a golden appearance that harmonized with the warm atmosphere. The four long legs of the bed stood on a wooden floor. On either side of it were pale rugs that welcomed their owner. Right there, on that smooth texture, two transparent ice cream pots rested. Each of them contained two different flavours, and they had been discarded from the bed moments before their owners decided to become intimate.

After a few moments of silence, the Englishman could feel his eyelids slowly descend and, little by little, he began to surrender to the fatigue that invaded him.

—Do you know something? —The words with that strong accent resonated and brought him back to reality— There are those who say that when two people make love their souls merge.

—Tell me I heard wrong and you didn't say anything like that ...—

—Oh please, —he cleared his throat. —Just think about it.

—Who said it anyway, a bohemian you slept with once? — He asked jokingly.

—Think about it—he repeated, ignoring his words— It is the maximum vow to another person, you come to the other's soul and the other to yours. It is a union, a bond.

—No, it's not like that. And we did not make love. When two people lie down it's their bodies that react— he explained— Just like when you cut your finger, physical pain is what causes you to cry and feel bad.

France stood up to look him straight in the face.

—I cannot believe that you reduce such a sublime act, as making love, to a simple reaction. And on top of that you compare it to a cut on the finger!

—You say so now, but I'm sure if you cut yourself, you would cry— England replied with a soft smile as he sat up next to the other.

—Making love is an act of the soul, beyond the body— said the Frenchman with great drama—It is independent of physical reactions.

—Let's see, then, according to your theory, we can sit right here, without even touching or looking at each other, and have sex anyway.

—Making love— he corrected him.

—Stop calling it that! —The English protested redly before continuing gracefully. —Even if there was no physical contact, you would inevitably be thinking of sleeping with me, which is the physical act itself! There is no way of make… to have sex—he corrected himself— through the mind.

—One is born with the consciousness of making love— declared France—then it is captured on the physical level. But only through the soul is true union achieved.

—I'd like to see how you can avoid putting a finger on someone!

—You had to be an empiricist! — he exclaimed in frustration— Tell me how much you like to catch this through your senses!

Immediately after, he gave a push to the left side of England.

—This is how things are? Let's see what your innate knowledge of this says— With a strong kick, he ripped a moan from the lips of France. Damn rationalist!

—If you mess with rationalism, you mess with Descartes! — He vainly tried to kick him back, but the Englishman was faster and managed to evade him.

—And you're messing with Locke, Bacon, Hume, and Aristotle! —After each name pronounced, he whipped the other with the pillow on which he previously rested.

—But you messed with Plato, Aristotle's mentor and superior to all the ones you mentioned! —After a struggle, France managed to remove the pillow from him and throw it out of bed.

—What difference does it make! He wasn't even French—His green eyes turned to the remaining pillow that rested on the bed. The other rushed over it and protected it over his exposed body.

—I hope you're happy now— he gasped—I'm not hugging you anymore.

—It would have been easier if you had stopped earlier— England muttered—We would had spared such a dispute.

In response, he simply snorted, and for the next few moments a tense silence settled over the room. England turned discreetly between the sheets and looked at France, askance. He was still attached to the pillow, but he didn't look upset. He looked away from him. Instantly he heard him collapse onto the mattress, apparently wanting to drop into Morpheus' arms. Without much ado, England stretched out, still on the bed, to reach for the pillow lying on the rug, just off the ice cream. In his carelessness, he left his back uncovered, at the disposal of the Frenchman's gaze. Behind him he could hear a hissing sound, followed by a slight laugh. Before long, he turned to glare at him. Once with the desired object in his possession, he returned to the shelter of the sheets.

France sighed and settled into bed, not without leaving some distance between each other. Neither deigned to speak to each other. The noise from the heating - one that did not do its job very well - was master of the room, from the dark wooden floor (which made that melodic sound when one walked on it) to the high white ceiling that not even the libraries came to touch. Outside, the soft but sharp drizzle rattled against the misted glass of the large window, each drop pushing the other like someone in a trouble in the city. With each strong blast, which slapped the window with a slap, a vibration was felt throughout the four walls. A powerful shiver ran down France's back, who shook himself in the warmth of the bed. Carefully he observed England.

—I'm cold— he said quietly. It was not a lie at all, because when the heated discussion ended, he had begun to feel the glimpse of an incipient low temperature.

—Then cover up. —

—Or you could warm me up ... —Forgetting his previous anger, the Frenchman slipped close to the other to wrap his long arms around his waist.

—You are cold! —He objected— And I didn't give you permission to do that.

Despite his words, the Englishman did not push him away. He just turned to see him face to face, giving him a hard, aggressive look.

—Come on, it will be convenient for both of us. —At the end of his words he moved his body until he was on his partner—I can almost feel the temperature rising between us ...

—Oh yeah? I don't —- England muttered before leaning over to the other's face and biting his nose in a superficial way. Its owner scratched it a bit to remove the sensation, but soon captured the mouth that had attacked him.

The peace was not disturbed during the exchange of kisses. Nor when France's soft lips began to descend the body below his's. Slight sounds that denoted pleasure were heard, but soon ceased, as a sonorous lightning made both of them petrify. They exchanged a quick glance.

—-What do you do? —-England asked when his lover's blue eyes turned away and he bent over to rummage under the bed.

—-It happens, my dear, that a brilliant idea came to me almost as fast as that lightning illuminated the sky. — When his face returned to the Brit's field of vision, he understood what he had in mind, because he was holding his ice cream pot.

—Don't even think about it! That thing is frozen and sticky, — he argued— Better leave it where it was and eat it later.

—I'm not going to throw it at you, I'm not so unconscious, you know? I just make sure that the next time you eat this ice cream flavour— France began to explain—don't think of anything other than me.

He loaded the small, gleaming spoon with a little of the contents, poured it onto England's lips, and finally bent down to lick the sweet cold. Before he could walk away, a hand stopped his face and a new kiss seized the moment. The situation was repeated twice. During the third, when France was raising his spoon, an exclamation of horror escaped his throat.

—But what is the matter with you?! —The other man snapped, irritated and confused at the same time. The glowing object had been thrown to the other end of the bed.

—It's ... It's the ice cream ... — He answered, as he left the pot, more delicately than the last time.

—Yes, I already noticed that you threw it like it was burning your hands— The Englishman turned his face to get a better angle and see what the situation was about.

—No, you don't understand ... There is an earthworm in it! —

Sure enough, a tiny being —brown, slim, long— made its way out from under the glittering object that was crushing it. It mouths peeked out brave and haughty as its body twisted. The rings of the slimy figure of the earthworm were stained by the ice cream that seconds before the lovers savoured it. Once it was completely free of the spoon, he did nothing but frantically flutter on the sheets.

The disgusted expression on the faces of its spectators grew as they watched it more and more. The two separated their naked bodies and sat down to take a look at the pot containing the delicious sweet.

—How did it get here? — England asked, alarmed at the idea that his lips had certainly made contact with the same ice cream the worm crawled through.

—Does matters? Get him out of bed! —He exclaimed in frustration, keeping track of the wet creature's movements.

—He can't do anything to you from where it is. And even if it got close, it's just a worm! You have seen worse things.

—But he interrupted us, and I'm naked, and it's gross! —France retorted, as he turned his gaze to the other blonde.

—Well, I'm not having a great time either honestly. —Said a previously unknown irritated voice. A greater wonder was imprinted on the faces of the nations. —You guys are terribly loud, but you don't hear me complain about it. —

The worm, moving from the other end of the bed, was articulating words addressed to them.

—This is unbelievable ... —England muttered—First you sneak into my house and now you have the audacity to claim us for the noise! Such disrespect ... You have no place in this room, in this house! —he said to the puzzled worm who was looking at him.

"Hey, hey." I did not choose to come to this place —answered the little one.

"Then explained why you were in our ice cream —France asked.

"Gentlemen, I feel outraged. I have been kidnapped, tortured, and locked in a pot of ice cream (with a hideous taste, I must add). But until this very moment I had not been received in such bad ways. I ask you to tell me, is this the way to treat a being who has been through what I have been through?

Embarrassed, they both heard his words, not daring to look directly at him.

—I had no idea ..." — One excused himself.

—I never would have imagined ... — The other said.

—I already know it. I already imagined you were unaware of my situation— the worm said harshly. Now, I'd like to leave. I can't stand being here for another minute.

—Oh, of course! You have many issues to resolve—England took the worm between his index finger and thumb to lead it to the window. He opened it and let him out.

—One last thing ... —he said, before leaving— I ask you, please put on some clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment what you think. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


End file.
